


The Ghost of Sins

by squeaklings



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, S2E18 spoilers, pet death, self-indulgent angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeaklings/pseuds/squeaklings
Summary: Some sins cannot be forgiven, but life can still arise from the ashes.





	The Ghost of Sins

The glow of the spell reflected off the dark, moldy walls around him, casting elongated shadows that writhed among the corners of the old storeroom. Caleb stared at the circle he'd dug into the dirt, hands sweaty and bloody against his knees, breath caught in his throat.

He'd spent days gathering the components, driven like a man possessed, stealing and scrounging among the stores and homes of the small village he'd hidden himself in. The spell itself was simple; one of the first he'd learned, in a different life. A tool, he'd been told. Like all the spells at his disposal, like his very life, this was a tool for the glory of the Empire and nothing more.

_Cold hands, colder words, the lick of fire on his face and the screams, the smell of burnt hair and blood and--_

Gradually the light took shape and Caleb held his breath, waiting for the mangled form, burnt and patchy fur, the smell of death and fear and his chest hurt his eyes burned why did he do it why did he do this he couldn't he didn't deserve it he, he, he--

Soft fur and a bright, curious, painfully familiar face greeted him, tail swaying gently as the orange tabby looked up at him expectantly. Caleb gasped and caught the cat up in his arms, dragged it to his chest, elated and horrified to feel the gentle rumble of purrs. The familiar nuzzled his chin and he held him tighter, strangled sobs echoing hollowly in the tiny room.

“I'm sorry, Frumpkin,” he sobbed in Zemnian, face pressed into the soft fur. “I'm sorry, little friend. I'm so sorry.”

The words tumbled out, broken and disjointed, soft echoes and a gentle purr his only answers. Every nuzzle was a dagger of guilt, every mew a reminder of the monster he was, but he welcomed each gladly, unable and unwilling to take comfort in the ghost of his sins. 

_”You are a tool, and nothing more.”_

He clung to his familiar, to his Frumpkin, as the light of the spell faded and they were once more left in darkness.

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said, voice muffled by fur. _Fire and blood and pale white robes, gentle hands and the fog of madness._ He stood slowly, eyes hard as he sent a sphere of light to the ceiling and settled Frumpkin on his shoulders. “But we have work to do.”

For the _glory_ of the Empire.


End file.
